Word: weights
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America's fat crisis has been a long time coming. Diet books have been selling briskly for decades, and Richard Simmons' fitness infomercials from the '80s seem positively retro. Despite a national obsession with losing weight, however, we have continued to put on pounds. Today one-third of Americans are not just overweight but obese. That's why the issue got more attention in 2004 than ever before from health experts, government agencies and the media--including Time and abc News, which jointly sponsored a conference on obesity in May. And it's why I've decided...
...what it is, and Golightly (which is, in fact, her real name) hits exactly the mark she shoots for. The disc is a blend of American roots music, with all the weight that it suggests: it channels jazz, country and blues with a spare post-electric (but pre-rock and roll) feel. The disc features omnipresent Silvertone-esque guitars channeled through what sounds like fuzzy vintage Fender Frontman amps. With a couple of exceptions, the songs are written by Golightly herself but sound like they could have come from the likes of Patsy Cline, Hank Williams or Loretta Lynn...
...course, the film puts the heaviest weight on Murray, and the actor is never quite invested enough in the performance to support it. In creating Zissou, Murray cleanly cuts out the weary heartache of Lost in Translation’s Bob Harris to offer a shell of a man too sterile and smarmy to lend any real gravitas to Zissou’s gradual realization of his own mid-life impotence...
Bardem and Rueda are the highlights of a uniformly strong cast. Limited to using only his face, Bardem manages to communicate a wide spectrum of human emotion with virtually zero self-conciousness. From her very first scene, Rueda stands like pillar holding up an enormous weight that threatens to crush her, and this notion informs even her slightest word and gesture. They both bring their characters to life fantastically, giving the audience reason to feel for them and to follow their story...
...they should have known better that hype was inevitable. What was to transpire last Thursday wasn’t simply a rock show—there was at least some historical weight attached. The purported importance was reinforced by the accoutrements surrounding the show: between the $200 tickets being scalped, hawkers surrounding the venue and endless line of fans stretching far down Lansdowne St., the approach to the club felt more like going to a Sox game than to a concert. Also unusual was the mostly 30-something crowd, composed primarily of yuppies fondly remembering their dormitory days rather than...